‘Well, I’m perfectly willing to – ’
‘Mrs Channing, that would not be a good idea. Kitty would be made far more distressed by such a thing, both physically and emotionally, and her condition simply doesn’t justify it. So please don’t even think about it. Let’s give her another twelve hours, and then re-think in the morning. All right?’
‘Yes,’ said Francesca, giving in because there seemed to be no possible alternative. ‘Yes, all right.’
‘But if you’re worried, as I said last night, call me any time. And I’ll be along first thing in the morning to have another look at her.’ He patted Kitty’s restless little body tenderly. ‘You get some sleep, little one. Get yourself well.’
Rachel went to let him out of the convent; came back, looked at Francesca.
‘Can I get you anything, darling?’
‘No. No thank you,’ said Francesca. ‘Mummy, what am I going to do, how are we going to get her through this? We ought to be in London, we ought to be with Mr Lauder, at the hospital even – ’
‘Well darling, you heard what he said. And frankly, if she needed to be in hospital then I’m sure Dr Paget would have her there in a trice.’
‘Here!’ said Francesca. ‘What possible use is a hospital here?’
‘Darling, we’re not in the Outer Hebrides. There’s a large modern hospital at Plymouth, another in Exeter, I’ve been in them both with Mary, there is no reason to doubt their ability to look after Kitty.’
‘But Mr Lauder said – ’
‘Francesca, Mr Lauder is away. If he were in London, I might see more point trying to get her back there.’
‘Well, what about Mr Moreton-Smith? The surgeon, you know, who saw her? We could get her to him, get him down here even …’
‘Maybe tomorrow, yes. But not tonight.’
‘Oh God, why did I let this happen?’ said Francesca, throwing back her head in agony. ‘Why didn’t I take her back early yesterday, before it was too late? I’ll tell you why, it was because I was so wrapped up in my own troubles, too sorry for myself. I neglected her, she’ll get worse, she’ll probably die, all because – ’
‘Francesca, stop it,’ said Rachel severely. ‘You’re being hysterical. You didn’t take her back yesterday because you were advised not to. And the day before she was perfectly all right. She had a slight cold. Which, you told me yourself, Mr Lauder had told you to ignore. Or words to that effect. This is all purely a result of happenstance. It is not your fault. Now please calm down. Babies are very susceptible to tension.’
Francesca didn’t say anything. She just bent over the cot, stroking Kitty’s head, the dry hot forehead, the dark curls falling onto the red little cheek.
‘Would you – ’ Rachel hesitated. ‘Well, I just wondered if you’d like to – ’
‘Like to what?’
‘Well, speak to Bard.’
‘What about?’ said Francesca, genuinely puzzled.
‘Well, about Kitty. About her being ill.’
‘Mummy, of course I don’t want to speak to Bard. What good would that do?’
‘It might make you feel a little better. And perhaps he – well, he ought to know. He is her father.’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake!’ said Francesca, and her rage at her mother was so great she spoke louder than she had intended, and Kitty started in her cot. ‘Of course it won’t make me feel better,’ she went on, very low, ‘it would make me feel a great deal worse. And don’t even suggest she’s so ill he ought to know. That really is nonsense. Why don’t you go to bed, Mummy, I’ll be all right.’
‘Yes all right,’ said Rachel, almost coldly. ‘I was only trying to help.’
‘Well, it wasn’t helpful. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight Francesca. I’ll see you in the morning.’
After she had gone, Francesca sat down in the small wooden chair that had been given to her as a bedside table and looked at Kitty in the cot. She was asleep again now, restless but asleep, her thumb in her mouth. So tiny she was, such a hopelessly tiny little piece of human existence; so tiny to withstand the onslaught of her illness. How could she manage it, Francesca thought, how could she withstand it, how could such a small, damaged, half-helpless heart hold out against what was happening to it?
She put out her hand, into the cot, pushed her finger in Kitty’s free fist; wishing, willing her well again, sending out strength, love to her.
She could not even think of going to bed; she was afraid to sleep, afraid of leaving Kitty unwatched over. She just sat there, thinking, looking back over the short life, so filled with anxiety, right from the very beginning.
Well, not from the very beginning, of course. That had been wonderful. Slowly and painfully, for it hurt from her damaged distance, Francesca looked back at those golden days on the Greek island, and wondered at the speed with which her life had darkened.
Jess Channing very seldom visited her son at home. She felt uncomfortable in the excesses of Hamilton Terrace; her socialist soul contemplated the wasted space, the perfectly furnished, overheated, under-used rooms, the wardrobes full of scarcely worn clothes, the cellar stacked with wine that might one day be drunk, the large cars outside the door driven so much of the time by one person, the overpaid, under-employed staff, there to do for Bard and his family things they were more than capable of doing for themselves, and was distressed by it.
She summoned Bard to her, when she wanted to see him, and he visited her when he wanted to see her; and if the meetings were not quite as common as she might have wished, they were not rare either.
But recently, she had not seen him at all: not since the day he had come to lunch, after the crash, three weeks ago now, and she felt uneasy. She had always known when he had something to hide, when he had done something wrong, ever since he had been a very small boy; and she had known by the simple fact he stayed out of her way: up trees, in cupboards, under beds when he had been very young and she had been looking for him to chastise him; in his room, the door firmly shut, when he had been a little older; simply staying away from her house when he was grown up. And in these past three weeks, he had certainly been staying away.
She had phoned a few times, left messages, and he had alway rung her back, told her he would visit her in a few days, that he was very busy, that things were tough; but he had not been. And now she was worried about Liam and what he might be doing to Francesca (who was clearly under his influence), and worried about the business and the people investigating it, and worried about Bard himself and his silence. And so, that Saturday night, she phoned the house.
Bard answered the phone himself; he sounded heavy, flat.
‘Isambard, it’s your mother.’
‘Yes, hallo.’
‘You don’t sound very happy.’
‘Porbably because I’m not.’
He had only admitted to misery twice in his life: once when Marion had died, once when Pattie had finally been admitted to the clinic for the first time.
‘I’ll come round,’ Jess said.
‘So what have you done, Isambard?’
She had made him some tea, sat down opposite him in the kitchen, the only room in the house she liked to be in.
‘Me? I haven’t done anything. Life’s been doing some pretty harsh things to me.’
‘You make your own life, Isambard. Nobody does it to you.’
‘Oh really?’ he said, and for the first time for many years he was angry with her. ‘Is that so? It was my fault, was it, that Marion died?’
‘No,’ she said quietly, ‘of course not. I’m sorry.’
‘I thought I’d found her again,’ he said, sitting down, his head between his hands, ‘or the happiness of her, at any rate. In Francesca. And she’s left me. Told me to go. Now. When I need her so much.’
‘Isambard, you’ve been shutting her out. I told you. That’s no way to show a woman you need her.’
‘I was protecting her.’
‘Women don’t need protecting,
’ said Jess briskly. ‘That’s what men need. Been having an affair with Liam, has she?’
Bard stared at her. ‘How the f — hell did you know?’
‘I talked to her.’
‘What, she told you about it?’
‘Of course not. I’m not stupid. It seemed very plain to me. That she was very taken with him, at least. It went further than that, did it?’
‘I’m afraid so, yes.’
‘And how can you be so sure?’
‘Because they’ve both made it perfectly clear to me.’
‘Both? You’ve talked to him?’
‘I’m afraid so, yes. And he went to great pains to assure me it had been a great – pleasure.’
‘That boy is appalling,’ said Jess, her face drawn with distaste. ‘I can’t help being fond of him, but – ’
‘Oh can’t you?’
‘No I can’t. He’s damaged, which is always attractive, don’t ask me why, and that excuses a bit of his behaviour, and he’s interesting and very good at making me feel I’m interesting. Which is no doubt how he worked on Francesca.’
Bard was silent. Then he said, ‘So you think he did that? Actually worked on her? To hurt me?’
‘I’m sure of it. Aren’t you?’
‘Oh yes, of course. But it’s reassuring to have it confirmed.’
‘He’s very dishonest and he has the morals of a tomcat. Which probably insults tomcats. And he’s very cruel. He worries me a lot.’
‘He worries you!’ said Bard. His voice was bitter.
‘Yes, he does. What he might do next. Mind you, Naomi’s a clever, ruthless girl, she can probably cope with him.’
‘What upsets me most,’ said Bard with a sigh, ‘is not so much that – that she – ’
‘That she slept with him? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Yes,’ he said, embarrassed to be having such a discussion with her.
She looked at him, her sharp face tender suddenly. ‘You really don’t mind that, Isambard? Are you sure? It can’t be easy for you.’
‘No. No it isn’t. Of course not. I could tear him limb from limb. And her, in my darker moments.’
‘Yes, I daresay. Well, she should know you’re angry. Something wrong if you weren’t.’
‘Oh, she knows that,’ said Bard, ‘of course she does. But what hurts most is that they were so close. Talked to one another. You know?’
‘Yes, well, that’s largely your fault,’ said Jess severely. ‘I did try to warn you, you know.’
He looked at her. ‘Mother, if you’re going to start lecturing me, I’d rather you left. I thought you’d come because you wanted to help.’
‘Well, I’m not going. And I do want to help. Of course I do.’ She put her hand on his briefly; so undemonstrative was she normally, it was like a caress.
‘But you’ve got to understand. Francesca had this relationship with Liam because she was lonely. Unhappy. Of course it was wrong of her, but she’ll know that …’
‘Yes,’ he said, with a sigh, ‘yes, she does. But it doesn’t seem to make any difference. She doesn’t want to carry on with the marriage. That’s the point.’
‘And you do? Are you sure? There’s a lot to forgive. It’s hard to do that, to forgive. Especially for someone like you. It can lead to dreadful bitterness.’
‘I’m quite sure,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ve thought about it a lot and I can do it. And besides, there is a lot for both of us to forgive. It’s not an – an uneven situation. But she doesn’t want to try.’
‘Oh I think she does,’ said Jess. ‘She loves you very much. She may not know it at the moment, but she does. It’s very plain to me. She wouldn’t be so troubled by you if she wasn’t.’
‘How do you know she’s troubled by me?’
‘Because it shows. Any fool can see it. You’ve got to go and get her back, Isambard, if you do really want her. She won’t come to you. It’s no use sitting there, waiting, and thinking she ought to.’
‘I can’t,’ he said, ‘you don’t understand. I’ve tried.’
‘And how have you tried? I’ve never known you not get what you wanted before.’
‘I went to see her. I’ve said I was sorry for my part in it. Told her I loved her, that I needed her.’
‘Oh well, that was very good of you,’ said Jess. ‘You think she’s going to believe that, do you, you think that’s sufficient, a few words? Words come cheap, Isambard, I’ve always told you that. Easy come, easy go, words are. A few actions, that’s what Francesca’s looking for.’
‘Mother, I told you, she told me to go away, that our marriage was over.’
‘Yes, well, she doesn’t mean it,’ said Jess.
‘How do you know?’
‘I was always telling your father to go away. I didn’t mean that either.’
‘But you hated my father.’
‘No I didn’t. I hated what he did, but I loved him. Very much.’ Her gaunt face softened suddenly. ‘He was very powerful, very strong. As you are. He persuaded me in the end, however bad he was, that I still wanted him. I couldn’t have him in the house, because of you. But I still wanted him.’
‘You mean, you loved and wanted a man who knocked you about?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Jess. She spoke matter-of-factly, as if he had asked her if she wanted another cup of tea.
‘Oh,’ said Bard finally.
‘I’ll tell you why. He managed to stop. It was very hard. He had to get help, admit to it. And there wasn’t much therapy in those days, and attitudes were very different. But he did it for me. He showed me, you see. And when he was killed, I was very unhappy for a long time.’
‘Well,’ said Bard finally, ‘I wish you’d told me all this before.’
‘Well, I’m telling you now. You don’t knock Francesca about, I presume. And she still loves you and you can get her back, if you want her. Of course you can.’
‘I don’t knock her about, no,’ said Bard slowly, ‘but I – ’
‘Yes? What have you done to her, Isambard?’
He looked at her, across a long silence; then he said, ‘I can’t tell you. I really can’t.’
‘All right,’ said Jess, ‘don’t. But whatever it is, you can make it all right. If you really want to. It’s a matter of doing, though. Not just saying, Isambard, doing.’ She looked at him, smiled. ‘I know you think I’m a silly old woman, but it’s true. Do enough and she’ll take you back. It’s a mattter of finding what’s enough. That’s all. Where is she, anyway?’
‘Oh – she’s in Devon with her mother,’ said Bard abstractedly.
‘With the children?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’ll do her good,’ said Jess, ‘do them all good. Just what they need.’
‘Well,’ said Teresa, ‘I don’t know what to say. I suppose I should be cross. I am cross.’ She smiled at Gray. ‘I’m bloody furious, actually.’
‘You could,’ he said, ‘take the story yourself. Sell it to some other paper. Or even mine. You’ve got all the facts.’
She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘I could, couldn’t I? Then we’d have it all ways. I’d see Channing’s goose cooked, and you’d have your conscience clear.’
‘Yup,’ said Gray.
She looked at him. ‘It must have hurt,’ she said, ‘giving that story up. When you’d worked on it for so long, when it was so good.’
‘It was absolute agony,’ said Gray simply. ‘Every time I think of it, in the paper, on the front page, under my name, I have to have another drink. But I just had to. I’n not even quite sure why myself.’
‘I think I am,’ said Terri, and her voice was very gentle. ‘You’re a nice person, Graydon. Very nice. Well, I suppose I could do that. Tell another paper I mean. But I probably won’t. As far as I can see, Channing’s goose is pretty well cooked anyway. Fancy the old bag being involved like that. Well, I suppose she’s in love with him. They always are, you know.’
‘Who are?’
&
nbsp; ‘Those old dragons of secretaries. They think they have some special place in the bosses’ lives, that they’re even closer to them than their wives.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘I know so. Very Freudian, or whatever.’
‘Yes, I suppose you could be right,’ said Gray slowly. ‘She looked very different in those photographs, I can tell you. With her hair let down, literally.’
‘Oh she’s a very sexy woman, Marcia.’
‘Sexy!’ said Gray. ‘Terri, don’t be ridiculous, she’s not sexy, she’s – ’
‘Old, were you going to say? Of course she’s sexy. You’ve only got to smell her for a start, that perfume she wears, very strong, that’s not an old maid’s perfume. And that bosom of hers, very voluptuous. Don’t make the mistake, Graydon, of thinking we middle-aged women can’t be sexy. It’s all there still, you know. Sex doesn’t end with the first grey hair.’
‘No,’ he said quickly, ‘no, of course.’
He looked at her; she was smiling, but there was hurt behind her bright blue eyes. Suspiciously brilliant blue eyes. He put out his hand, took hers.
‘Terri, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’
‘Oh, it’s all right. I’m a bit low, that’s all. Missing Douglas.’ She sighed, got up, took a cigarette out of her bag and lit it. For once, Gray didn’t mind. ‘I think I’m glad that story isn’t coming out, you know. In spite of what I said. I want people to remember him as they thought he was. Duggie, I mean. As he really was, actually. Kind, sweet, generous. Just a bit foolish. And a bit greedy, I suppose.’
‘Yes, a bit,’ said Gray carefully.
‘And under Bard Channing’s influence.’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, dear,’ she said suddenly, fumbling for a handkerchief, stubbing out her cigarette, ‘sorry, Graydon, bit emotional I’m afraid.’
Graydon looked at her. He felt very strange suddenly. Strange, sad, and very tender towards her. He got up, walked over to her, held out his arms.
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